Putting off Life, One Country at a Time

I have writer’s block. Back in, I think it was 2010, a personal experience kicked off a spark that led to me thinking of something that I though would make a great (or at least good) movie. When the reality of having no budget and no reliable friends interested in helping me make it dawned, I realised this would actually make a better book after all. I started writing then, and still haven’t finished. Not because it’s long, but because of those epic breaks. Which means that in terms of blocks, I suppose this is a big one. It’s less like a kink in the hose and more like that giant fatberg they found blocking the sewers of London. 130 tonnes of flushed waste, built up over years, piling up and slowly and stubbornly refusing to let anything get through whatsoever. It took a whole team to get that thing broken down, and now a brick of it is sitting in the Museum of London for over-curious tourists to enjoy. It’s in a glass case gladly, as I don’t expect it smells too great, and apparently things are still hatching out of it. So you can go and look at the history of the city, from prehistoric times, with skeletons of animals that no longer exist, through to roman occupation, medieval paintings, changing fashion, the development of electricity and industry, marvelling at the invention and adaptability of man, and cap it off with the most modern contribution to the city, a big block of smelly hard poo. Which, if you’re into metaphors, might give food for thought. If you’re still hungry.

Strange times indeed for what we call “democracy” in this currently-United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. As we all know, the UK decided to leave the European Union, based on the precarious outcome of 52%-48% in a non-binding advisory referendum following a campaign characterised by such outrageous lies that the promoters were quick to walk back on and denounce them the very day after the results came in. They were happy to accept the result though, and have been frothing about the inviolable “will of the people” ever since, as a rationale for pushing through what will surely amount to the most destructive act to the UK and its people in decades.

After “taking back control” from Brussels by stirring up passionate belief in the supremacy of our own locally-elected parliament, every attempt has been made to remove the role of that parliament by those leading this coup, with judges being attacked as “enemies of the people” on the front pages of national newspapers for stating that that very same parliament needed to have a say in how this plays out.

If I were looking at the UK political situation from the outside right now, probably the main thing I’d be wondering is, What the hell? How did it get to this? It’s a fair question, and after watching this surreal story play out, I felt I had to write this down to get it clear in my own head as well as record it for me to read back on in years as I sit in some burned-out wasteland of the future (which apparently still has wifi in this scenario). So here it is. Imagine.

The first thing I saw in Canada was a snowplough. Actually, the first thing I saw was an insane queue at immigration, as apparently, waiting for a relatively clear patch of sky, all the planes had arrived at once, and ours had been stuck on the runway for a while waiting for a spare gate before we could disembark. But after about an hour and a half of that, and then my surprisingly quick passport check, the first thing I saw once I left the airport was a snowplough.

Well, it’s been a long while since I wrote anything. In the last year a lot has happened, mostly with me being back home for a while, neither travelling nor procrastinating. But maybe that’s a story for another time. Now I find myself back in Classy Old London, city of top hats, moustaches and the good old gentry.

Sitting in the top of a bright red double-decker bus wending its way through the northern part of the city, a couple of heavier girls who look about 13 come up the stairs and take a seat a couple of rows behind me. They then begin to chat away in loud voices that bounce about the capsule upper deck.

Dream, if you can, a courtyard. An ocean of violets in bloom. The moon hangs bright in the sky like a shiny 10p coin in the gutter. The night breeze drifts gently across the garden and through a window someone has neglected to close, ruffling the curtains on the inside. There you are, quietly reclining in the reading room, catching up on some Dickens, or perhaps enjoying a gentlemanly backgammon match with the visiting Sir Wumbletwigger. The little replica of the Palace of Westminster rests on the mantlepiece, and as the night reaches 10pm, the little Big Ben tolls out the hour. Read more…